In which the untold story of Walburga Black unfolds.
She was a witch before she was a wife, mother, and cruel woman.
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"You failed as a mother; I failed as a son. Can you sit here truthfully, and say you love me? Look in my eyes, and say that you...
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The following month blurred into a monotonous haze. Each day was a repeat of the last, with Walburga confined to her room, endlessly weeping.
Mornings brought Narcissa, gently coaxing her to eat a few bites of breakfast.
But as Narcissa's due date approached, she could no longer visit Grimmauld Place, confined instead to Malfoy Manor. In her deep despair, Walburga noticed her niece's absence but said nothing.
She had given birth to a boy. Draco Lucius Malfoy was his name; he was heir to everything the Malfoy's had. His blood was the perfect mix of the wealthiest, purest, and most noble of houses.
He was both a Black and a Malfoy; the golden prize of the wizarding elite.
The boy, just days old, had been born into a world that would welcome him with open arms, yet would demand far too much in return.
The irony was inescapable, even to her. Her niece, now confined to Malfoy Manor, was following in her footsteps. Just as Walburga had been chained to Grimmauld Place, Narcissa would now be bound to her own gilded cage.
Lucius, determined to be there for Walburga, tried to visit her, mirroring Narcissa's efforts. Despite his years of friendship with Regulus, Walburga found him adrift, as if his compass had shattered.
The war had taken its toll on the young Malfoy, leaving him perpetually on the verge of collapse. Yet, he persisted, much to Walburga's chagrin.
She saw the ghost of Abraxas in him, while Lucius, in turn, saw the ghost of Regulus in her.
"Mrs. Black, you must eat," Lucius muttered, standing by her bed in the dimly lit room. The curtains, drawn tightly, blocked out all sunlight. The walls bore countless scratch marks from her episodes of mania, resembling the aftermath of a wild animal's rampage.
He looked down at Walburga, who lay motionless, staring blankly at the ceiling. She ignored him, as she did most days, lost in her grief and the shadows of her mind.
"Mrs. Black, please," he spoke, trying to keep his calm.
"Regulus," she muttered, her voice permanently rough from her excessive wails.
Lucius's heart ached at the sound of her son's name, spoken like a prayer or a curse, haunting the silence of the room. He knelt beside her bed, gently placing the tray of food on the nightstand.
"He's gone," he whispered, "but you are still here. You need to take care of yourself."
She continued to stare at the ceiling, her eyes unfocused, as if seeing a different time and place. "I just want to speak to him again," she said, her voice cracking with the weight of her sorrow.
